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You Never Held My Hand

You never held my hand. Did you know that? Your hand never touched mine. It touched everywhere else on my body. It would graze the small of my back when you would shove me forward, if I didn’t go where you wanted me to. It locked around my jaw after you’d punched me there, if I didn’t answer you correctly. It squeezed my forehead, when you’d grab it and shout at me for looking at other guys, although I wasn’t. I never was. I promise. I guess handholding just seemed normal to me, and normal was what I craved more and more every day. It was my biggest wish that maybe one day you would just do it and surprise me. Everytime you reached out, I got all excited. My heart would start racing. I would feel light and fluttery; that nervous feeling you get before you sing in the school talent show. A deep pouding sound would cruise through my ears and envelop me when I saw where your hand was headed. I was aware that it would come coasting towards me, but I still got my hopes up everytime. It was easy to do this, considering you’d appoligize after every hit. “Samantha,” you’d say, sizing up my scarred face, “I didn’t mean to do that. You have no idea how sorry I am. I’m just worried about loosing you. You know I love you.” I’d nod and proceed to hug you, my frail body mixing with yours. I wanted to speak out, but I was terrified to. I would bite my lip and bury my face in your chest to stop myself from saying anything. If you said you loved me, then you really loved me. I compelled myself to keep my doubts behind closed lips. I’d never tell anyone. I was ashamed. I knew that the prime reason you would hurt me was because I wasn’t always the best girlfriend, and I admit that.The problem is that being a good girlfriend shouldn’t mean masquerading who you really are. So, I had a lot of sneaking around to do. I lied to you from time to time. I’d blow off our plans to do something else. I didn’t listen to you when you talked to me. I didn’t obey you. Maybe, if I did, everything would have culminated differently, but I’m not a big fan of “maybe’s.” The reality was that I was trapped. I’d never felt so raw and used in my life. When we broke up last Tuesday, all I could do was reflect on those two years of pure hell. You and I were joined at the hip for them. It wasn’t necessarily because I wanted us to be, but because I was petrified of what you would do to me if we weren’t. I was almost waiting around for something to happen; some superhero to come and rescue me from you. Our breakup wasn’t pretty and neat; like those ones in movies. One day the couple is together and then one of them decides they aren’t interested in being in a relationship anymore. The next day, they are done. Ours was not clean cut, like that. It wasn’t even stated. It was just evident. I knew that I couldn’t handle it anymore; I couldn’t handle you anymore, Adam. From the very start, I knew that something was wrong. Our relationship was flawed in some way. I couldn’t put my finger on it at first, when you sat down next to me during math class, Freshmen year. I couldn’t figure it out when we started dating, a little after. It became clear sooner or later, though; clear as glass. Yet, I kept going back to it, again and again. I’ve always had this random, irrational fear of driving a car into an ocean. It may sound absolutely insane, but I think I first thought of it while I was dreaming one night, and it just stuck in my head. The weight of the car would pull me down, drowning me, and it would be nearly impossible to get the doors open, in order to swim out. It is way scarier than just drowning. For some reason, I think my dreams were trying to tell me something that night. I think I knew, subconsiously, our fate. Just before last Tuesday, I had been in that car, heading to the bottom of the ocean. The only way out was to smash through the windows and destroy the car forever. It was better than just sinking; so that was what I did.